


Went Too Far

by fuzipenguin



Series: Crossing Lines [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Dark, Other, Rape Aftermath, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't know what changed, but this time the Decepticons went too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/gifts).



> Dark Fic, folks! Mentions of torture, rape, extreme violence. Present Tense. Changing POV, including omniscient POV. There are occasional unimportant OCs. 
> 
> for dracoqueen22's fic trade suggestion: A fic where something happens to Ratchet and all the Autobots go berserk on the Decepticons. Writers keep hinting that Megatron doesn't dare touch Ratchet because it would piss off the bots but no one ever writes it. I want to see it, darn it!

                “What happened to Ratchet, Sideswipe?”

                The warrior stills the slow wringing of his hands and looks up. Optimus barely suppresses the reflex to take a step back at the despairing look in Sideswipe’s optics. Beside Optimus, Wheeljack shifts uneasily.

                “Don’t you mean to ask, what didn’t happen?” Sideswipe asks, his hands falling to his lap. His gaze follows, and he watches his freshly scrubbed fingers clench and release in a rhythmic pattern. For a long moment, everyone in the room is mesmerized by the tremors in the normally steady hands. Then Wheeljack stirs, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the treatment bay.

                “Sides… we need to know what wounds he’s sustained. ‘Aid’s stabilizing the obvious injuries, but…” Wheeljack trails off as Sideswipe shakes his head.

                “He’ll live,” Sideswipe interrupts. “They made me watch. I know that he’ll live.” Sideswipe’s voice strengthens on the last word, almost as if he’s taking comfort in it.

                “What did they do, Sideswipe?” Optimus asks, trying to keep his voice low and soft. He wants to shake the warrior, make him speak every detail of the torture they put one of Optimus’ oldest friends through. Because it _was_ torture, there is no mistake about that.

                Sideswipe’s twin takes a step closer to his brother; Sunstreaker warily watches Optimus as if Sunstreaker can read the Prime’s thoughts.

                “I expected questions. They always ask the stupidest questions!” Sideswipe chuckles, shaking his head. His optics are still fixed on his hands.

                “But they didn’t. Ask any questions, I mean. Of either of us. They came to me first, to try and make me scream, to try and make me beg.” Sideswipe absently leans back at the rumbling growl that emerges from Sunstreaker at Sideswipe’s narration. The growl subsides a little as Sideswipe’s back touches Sunstreaker’s chestplates.

                “I wouldn’t. I mean, come on.  They weren’t even trying.” Sideswipe momentarily looks up, shrugging with a lopsided grin.

                “Then they started in on Ratchet. And at first, it was just a little kicking and punching. But they still weren’t asking any questions, and he’s part of command! I thought for sure they would pump Ratchet for information. But no. They just… they just hurt him.”

                Sideswipe’s voice wavers. “They _hurt_ him. And they said that if I begged, if I asked nicely, they would stop. They were playing us against each other, I know they were. But Ratchet’s not built for that kind of pain, not like Sunny and me; I don’t think Ratchet’s been tortured like that before, if ever. So I begged.

                “I begged. I _screamed_ for them. They wouldn’t stop!” Sideswipe peers up at Optimus with wet, wide optics, searching his leader’s face for signs of reassurance. Optimus can only nod at Sideswipe to continue while trying to calm his own churning tanks.

                “StopGap knew what he was doing; they strung him up and took out all his relay motors from the waist down. They made sure he couldn’t move, because Ratchet kept getting in some good kicks. They broke his legs first because of that, I think; crushed his feet and melted out the joints of his knees.

“Then they turned up his sensory net and began peeling back his plating. Ratchet’s a tough mech,” Sideswipe says, “but they got him to scream at that.”

                Optimus finds himself shaking and clenches his fists at his side to try and stop the tremors. He doesn’t want to hear anymore. But he has to take Sidewipe’s report; fleeing is not an option.

                “Optics were next. They turned up the sensitivity there too and then dripped magnesium phosphate onto them,” Sideswipe says, his voice gone emotionless in remembrance.

                “They kept promising they were going to show him a good time. Show him what it was like to be had by a Decepticon. I really didn’t think they were going to go that far, I really didn’t. But when they finished taking off the majority of his plating, they began lining up to rape him,” Sideswipe reports. “They all took a turn at him. Again and again, and…” Sideswipe closes his optics and sags a little. “They took his valve. They took his spark.

                “And they made me do it first,” Sideswipe whispers, shuddering.

                Wheeljack gasps, a sharp intake of sound, and Sideswipe flinches.

                 “I didn’t want to. Of course I didn’t want to,” he babbles, suddenly leaning forward and faceplates earnest, desperate to be believed. “They said if I did it, they wouldn’t kill him. They would put him back in his cell and would start in on me instead. And I could have taken it; I _have_ taken it! Megatron had his cannon on Ratchet’s spark so I said yes, and I… ”

                Sideswipe sags again, his eyes downcast. “I… I raped him. I raped Ratchet,” he whispers, vocalizer breaking on every word. “I raped him, and then they still gave him over to any fragger who wanted him. I did what they wanted; I did everything they wanted!”

                “I’m sorry,” Sideswipe cries, optics darting from Wheeljack’s faceplates to  
Optimus’. “I’m sorry! Please… I…”

                Sunstreaker crowds against the edge of Sideswipe’s berth and snakes an arm over his brother’s shoulder to grasp him around the chest. He pulls Sideswipe back against him, and Sideswipe turns to hide his faceplates in the crook of Sunstreaker’s arm, the yellow plating visibly rattling from Sideswipe’s keens.

                 Sunstreaker is very careful to avoid the deep burns running vertically across Sideswipe’s chassis. Optimus realizes now that they were not from any torture the Decepticons had submitted the warrior to. No, they were from Sideswipe pressing himself against the energy bars of his cell; pressing against them so hard, for so long, that the burns had penetrated almost to his protoform.

                 Optimus turns aside, his optics blindly staring into nothing. He does not blame Sideswipe. He sorrows for Sideswipe, for the things he had to witness and the things he had to do. There is great affection and trust between the twins and Ratchet. Optimus knows that Sideswipe will grieve deeply for breaking that trust.

                Sunstreaker snarls something, and Wheeljack retreats with his lipplates pressed together tightly. His helm fins are dark, devoid of color. Optimus watches him leave the isolation room and mourns for the engineer as well.

                Wheeljack bypasses Prowl out in the hallway, the second in command’s sensory panels arched high and taut over his shoulders. He enters the isolation room and surveys the twins. Before he can speak, Optimus lays a hand on the tactician’s shoulder. Optimus shakes his head at Prowl’s inquiring look.

                “Give him some time,” Optimus says.

                “I need information regarding…”

                “I know,” Optimus interrupts. “But not now. Give him some time.”

                Prowl takes a longer glance at the twins, at Sideswipe sitting with his knees tucked up against his chest as he makes quiet sounds into his brother’s plating. The second in command’s sensory panels dip a little before he turns back to Optimus with a nod.

                “Very well. I will check on them later.”

                “Thank you, Prowl.”

                Prowl takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “Ratchet is heavily injured.”

                “Sideswipe said he will live.”

                Prowl’s sensory panels flick. “Sideswipe is not a medic.”

                “No,” Optimus replies, venting out a sigh. “But he knows what damage will result in offlining and what will result in maiming.” He looks over to see Sunstreaker softly crooning something into Sideswipe’s audio. Sunstreaker’s optics are still locked on Optimus, and Prime nods once before gesturing for Prowl to proceed him out of the room.

                Once in the hallway, Optimus shuts the door behind him and leans against it. “How many saw Ratchet as he was brought in?”

                “Nearly half of the Ark. Few saw the full extent of his injuries, but you know how word spreads. Perceptor tells me that it will be quite a while before they can bring Ratchet back out of stasis. The longer he is out of the public eye, the more rumors will circulate. I worry about morale.”

                Optimus nods, frowning. “As do I. Ratchet means a great deal to many mechs. This was… this was an abominable act,” he says, once more fighting down a surge of rage.

                “Agreed. The Decepticons have captured Ratchet twice before through the war, and he was never harmed those times. Perhaps they are desperate. Disabling a medic …”

                “But to do such a thing…” Optimus says, shaking his head. “Desperate or not, this is…”

                “Perhaps we should call a truce and speak with Megatron. Despite Ratchet’s incapacitation, we still have other advantages. This may be time to press for surrender.”

                Optimus nods. “I will call a meeting later to discuss this. Many of command are close friends with Ratchet, myself included. Let’s give some time to let tempers cool.”

                “Understood.” Prowl glances at the door to isolation one more time. “I will contact Smokescreen and ask him to visit Sideswipe once his injuries have been addressed.”

                “That may be best,” Optimus says, thinking of Sideswipe’s complete lack of normal composure. “I am going to check on Ratchet. I’ll contact you later this evening.”

                Prowl nods, letting Optimus pass by. He enters the main medical bay and takes a place against the wall nearest the berth where Ratchets lays. First Aid and Perceptor are crowded around the berth, hands flying across Ratchet’s mangled frame.

                Wheeljack catches sight of Optimus and nudges First Aid. Ratchet’s apprentice looks up and catches sight of Optimus; he says something quietly to Wheeljack, and the scientist takes ‘Aid’s place.

                First Aid walks towards Optimus, wiping his hands clean of fluids with a rag. Up close, Optimus can see the tired slump to ‘Aid’s shoulders. Optimus reaches out and lays a hand on the apprentice’s shoulder, and First Aid gives him a grateful look.

                “How is he?” Optimus asks.

                “He’ll live. But the repairs will be extensive. I’m most worried about his knee joints and his optics. We’ll have to fabricate both from scrap; his model is older than anything we have in the Ark’s stock. But it shouldn’t be too difficult, just time consuming. There was surprisingly little internal damage; his fuel pump and coolent systems are all intact.”

                “Sideswipe mentioned that Ratchet had been… violated,” Optimus says as gently as he can. First Aid’s shoulders slump even more, and he nods miserably.

                “There is evidence of repeated penetration to his valve, but it is damage easily repaired. His spark chamber had been pried open, but his spark is healthy and strong. Physically, he’ll be fine.” First Aid trails off, looking down at his feet.

                “Mentally, however, may be a different story,” Optimus supplies as First Aid nods mutely.

                “I just don’t understand, sir,” First Aid bursts out. “He’s the best medic there is. He’s even treated Decepticons before; he doesn’t care about the insignia when it comes down to an injured mech. Why would they hurt him like this? It just doesn’t make any sense!”

                Optimus shakes his head and squeezes First Aid’s shoulder again. “I don’t know. We’re going to try and figure that out. You’re doing a great job, First Aid. Ratchet would be proud.”

                Shaking his head miserably, First Aid goes to turn. “This is not how I wanted to test myself.”

                “It never is. First Aid.”

                 The apprentice turns to look inquiringly at Optimus.

                “The command will be discussing the situation later this evening. We will likely require your presence to update us on Ratchet’s condition.”

                First Aid fidgets in place a moment before drawing himself up and nodding. “Yes, sir. Just comm me as to when.”

                “I will. Let me know if there is anything you require.”

                “Yes, sir.”

                Optimus watches First Aid turn and walk back over to Ratchet’s side. Wheeljack holds up a part and First Aid nods, leaning over Ratchet’s open chestplates and pointing inside. Perceptor, Wheeljack, and First Aid all bend their necks, their helms nearly meeting over Ratchet’s spark. Optimus smiles sadly to see the medic, inventor, and scientist all working together to repair their friend and comrade.

                Ratchet had a temper and could be difficult to get along with at times, but everyone respected him for his skill and dedication to his field. And the mechs who had known him longest knew that deep inside that gruff exterior, Ratchet had a spark of gold.

                Optimus shakes his head and ex-vents, pushing off from the wall. He has a conference call with some local officials that cannot be missed, but he vows to himself to visit the medical bay as soon as he is finished.

                With one last nod to Wheeljack who looks up as Optimus passes by, the Autobot leader departs from the medical bay.

\--

                “Jazz. Can you tell us what happened on your end?”

                The saboteur leans farther back in his chair. His fingers, laced and resting across his abdomen, make a single ripple motion before stilling. His visored helm tilts to the side just so as he locks gazes with Optimus.

                “It ain’t a pretty story, boss bot,” Jazz says.

                Optimus nods once. “I know. I have Sideswipe’s version. But we will need your report to round out events. And Ratchet’s when he is out of stasis.”

                “And Ratchet’s, huh?  Well, guess I’ll start when ya sent me in for recon. It was easy enough to slip inside the Nemesis. A little too easy, I remember thinkin’. Soundwave was monitoring comms, but the rest of command was nowhere to be found. I did a brief search of the common areas, but couldn’t find anyone there either. Finally, I headed down to their brig, to see what trouble our boys had gotten in to. Turned out to be a lot.”

                Ironhide is sitting across from Jazz and snorts bitterly at the third in command’s words. “Ya think?”

                Jazz continues on as if Ironhide hadn’t spoken. “Nearly the entire Nemesis crew was packed into the brig. Now, their brig is set up a bit different from ours. They have some cells, sure, but they also have an… ‘interrogation chamber’… which is pretty big, and right next to the cells. Ole Megs was presidin’ in a corner, watchin’ as the crew had their go at Ratchet. By the time I got there, most of the damage’d been done. Ratchet was strung up tight and from the looks of things, his motor relays had been cut, so he couldn’t even struggle. But he could yell.”

                Jazz ducks his head, a wry smile sliding across his faceplates. “Could still cuss too. Think I picked up a few new ones.”

                The smile fades. “One of the few times I’ve seen the ‘cons acting orderly. Oh, they were all hollerin’ and jeerin’, but they each had their turn and there was very little scrappin’ about it. Guess it was the novelty of being allowed at the valve or spark of the Autobot CMO.”

                Someone makes a distressed sound; First Aid stands from his position in the chair that Ratchet normally occupied. The apprentice medic violently shakes his head as Smokescreen stands as well and whispers into Aid’s audio. They finally both sink back into their seats, First Aid’s expression tight.

                “Who was present?” Prowl asks.

                “Better question would be ‘who wasn’t’?” Jazz remarks, prompting Optimus to twitch. “Like I said, Sounders was at the comms, and I didn’t see any of his bitlets around. Starscream wasn’t there either, surprisingly. Nor the rest of his trine. Other than that, the entirety of the crew was there, either in the room or waitin’ their turn out in the halls. It was a Pit of a time gettin’ in there, I tell ya. Good thing they always forget to guard the ducts,” Jazz says, grinning sharply.

                “Where was Sideswipe in all of this?” Red Alert asks, suspicion coloring his tone.

                Jazz’s smile fades. “Locked up, Red. He had no part in this,” Jazz says, his visor dimming as he looks straight at the Security Director. “He was cussin’ as much as the Doc was, screamin’ at them to leave Ratch alone. Mech’s armor was a mess, cuz he kept throwin’ himself against the energy bars. Even managed to snag one of the ‘cons who wandered too close. Sides ripped out that one’s main energon line in a spark beat. But it didn’t get him anywhere; just more distance between the bars and the ‘cons.”

                “But it was Sideswipe’s fault that Ratchet was captured in the first place,” Red Alert states reproachfully.

                A low murmur spreads through the room, and Ironhide shifts in his seat, glaring at Red. Optimus reaches out a hand and places it on the Weapons Specialist’s shoulder before the large mech can speak.

                “Sideswipe was injured. Ratchet was tendin’ him. Ratchet coulda waited for Sides to be brought back to the bay, but he was already so far out in the field after treatin’ Brawn that Ratchet probably decided to just take a look there. Wasn’t anybody’s fault, Red,” Jazz says, voice level and even. The entire room hears the warning within nevertheless.

                Red Alert makes a humming sound and settles back in his seat, obviously not impressed with Jazz’s reasoning.

                “Doesn’t Sunstreaker and Sideswipe normally stick together?” First Aid tentatively asks.

                “That is correct,” Prowl answers, turning to face First Aid. “They act as a cohesive and formidable unit because of their spark link. However, prior to Sideswipe’s injury, Sunstreaker had engaged Thundercracker which led to Sunstreaker ending up on the opposite side of the battlefield. Sideswipe and Ratchet were technically behind the Decepticon line when they were captured.”

                “They were pretty fragging far behind the line,” Ironhide rumbles.

                “Exactly!” Red Alert is quick to jump on the fact. “Ratchet never ventures that far afield. But for one of his _pets_ , he’ll do just about anything!”

                “Red Alert!” Optimus says, his voice ringing out over the rest of the group. The Security Director falls silent at the glint in the Prime’s optic.

                 “Red Alert,” Optimus repeats, vocalizer softening in volume. “An error was made; there was no plot behind it. At this point, I can see no blame to be placed unless you want to have a word with Luck.”

                 “Sideswipe blames himself,” First Aid announces, and all helms swivel to look at the mech who spoke after Optimus. The medic apprentice squirms under the attention.

                Nodding, Smokescreen pats First Aid’s closest hand. “That is true. He has not said as much, but he has refused medical treatment.”

                Optics widening in concern, Optimus leans forward as First Aid continues.

                “His burns are not life threatening at this time, although they are very painful. However, it will not take long for them to erode further and send rust deep into his internals. At first I let treatment lapse, because…” First Aid looks sheepish.

                “You were understandably worried about your mentor,” Optimus finishes. “It’s all right.”

                “No! No, it isn’t!” First Aid says, his helm shaking in the negative. “Wheeljack told me what he said!” he cries, meeting Optimus’ optics. “I was glad he was hurting!”

                First Aid’s helm hangs, and he presses his hands against his mask as a small keen escapes. “I let him sit there in _pain_ … until I realized that Ratchet would never do that. He would have turned right around and treated the Decepticons who had raped him!”

                As Optimus settles back into his seat with a grave expression on his faceplates, the others look from their Prime to the acting CMO.

                “What is he going on about, Prime?” Ironhide asks as Smokescreen slides an arm over First Aid’s shoulders and speaks to him lowly.

                “It is a matter not necessary for this discussion,” Optimus finally replies. Off to the side, Jazz nods, a finger thoughtfully tapping the edge of his visor.

                “I’m a horrible medic,” First Aid moans softly in reply to something Smokescreen had said.

                “You are a quite capable medic, First Aid,” Prowl interjects before Optimus can. “Everyone has lapses in judgment.”

                “The point is, you eventually offered treatment to Sideswipe, did you not?” Optimus asks.

                “Yes,” First Aid reports, his optics still downcast. “He barely looked at me. And Sunstreaker is backing him up. For now, at least. I believe he wants his brother treated, but is abiding by Sideswipe’s wishes. I told them both what will eventually happen. A few more hours as Sideswipe’s pain worsens, and I think we’ll have Sunstreaker’s assistance, no matter what Sideswipe wants.”

                “You want him treated, you just comm me, ‘Aid,” Ironhide grunts. “I’ll hold ‘im down for you.”

                “We do not want to betray Sideswipe’s trust, Ironhide. But thank you for the offer,” Optimus says.

                “Want me to keep goin’?” Jazz asks as the conversation lulls.

                “Yes, please,” Prowl says, gesturing for the third in command to continue.

                “Well, soon as I had assessed, I reported back to Blaster and he relayed the info on. Blaster got back on the line not long after and told me to sit tight and wait for extraction.”

                “We elected for an assault verses an exchange,” Prowl informs the group, looking at each individual before moving on to the next. “Based on Jazz’s information and position, it was a better probability that a distraction would be more successful.”

                “It was a good plan, Prowler,” Jazz reports, ignoring the tactician’s twitch at the annoying nickname. “Once the alarm went off, it was a bottleneck as everyone tried to leave the brig. I swear more ‘cons got hurt in the confusion than anythin’. Everyone left the brig but Hook and StopGap, and they were easy enough to disable. I shut down the bars on Siders’ cage, and he helped me undo Ratchet’s bonds. We basically went out the back as everyone else went out the front. It took some time to get some distance between us and the Nemesis; then we called for Skyfire to come pick us up. The rest ya pretty much know: once back at the Ark, Sides and Ratch were brought into medbay.”

                “First Aid, could you tell everyone what you told me earlier as well as any updates?” Optimus asks.

                Calmer now, First Aid complies, and as they listen to his report each mech present reacts differently. Optimus exudes an air of resigned sadness. Ironhide vibrates with anger and shock. Prowl’s sensory panels shiver and arch high even as his faceplates remain blank. Smokescreen is visibly shaken. Jazz, who has perhaps the most experience with interrogation and torture, is quiet and still. When First Aid finishes, all gathered are silent.

                “’Cons made a big mistake,” Jazz finally says, shaking his head. His visor is dim, and he is staring at his hands resting on the table’s edge.

                “Frag yeah they did!” Ironhide erupts, his fist pounding on the surface of the table. “Ratchet is too valuable to be… to be… _used_ … like that. We would have traded a lot to get him back. Doesn’t make sense!”

                “No, it doesn’t,” Prowl says, nodding. “The best conclusion is that they hope to unsettle us, demoralize the crew, and then attack while we are still reeling. As I said before, First Aid is quite capable, but the loss of a skilled set of medical hands after a long and difficult battle could be disastrous. We need to be careful about what we say to the crew in regards to Ratchet’s condition.”

                “I think we need to tell them everything,” Jazz says suddenly, and all optics once again turn to him.

                “I’m not sure that is wise…” Optimus tactfully begins.

                “They want to come at us? I say let them come. They think they’ve seen our capabilities before? Well, they ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Every member of the Ark is gonna to be shocked at first, yeah. But they’re gonna get over that quick, and then they’re gonna want some payback. And it ain’t gonna be pretty,” Jazz says, a dark, predatory grin flashing over his lip components.

                Ironhide rumbles approvingly, nodding. “I think ya got a good idea there, Jazz.”

                Frowning, Prowl shakes his head. “Prime, I do not think…”

                “I’m not sure we’re thinking clearly,” Optimus says, holding up a hand for silence when everyone begins speaking at once. “Some of this information is personal. You must think about how Ratchet will feel when he arises from stasis to find that every mech in the Ark knows how he was mistreated. Many will not be able to view him the same as before.”

                Jazz looks taken back for a moment, then thoughtful. “Yeah, ok. I can see that. We can leave out the rape bits, but the rest…”

                Optimus leans back in his seat, a trouble expression on his faceplates. “How do you suggest distributing this information, Jazz?”

                “Hold an assembly. Down in Loading. It’s big enough for all of us. Red’ll be up in Security so we’ll have optics on the perimeter. Won’t be a long meetin’ anyway.”

                “This could go either way,” Prowl says, shaking his head. “There is an equally good chance that the Ark members will be so demoralized that they will be easily overcome in an attack.”

                Jazz begins shaking his head. “No. No, Prowl, you’re wrong. Some of ‘em, yeah, maybe. But we’re a tight knit group. And to injure one of our own, especially a noncombatant? They’ll be callin’ for revenge before Optimus is even done talkin’.”

                “And then what?” Red Alert scoffs. “We get everyone ramped up and then what? We launch an assault on the Nemesis and offline every Decepticon we run across?”

                “Why not?” Jazz retorts. “They’re obviously not interested in peace if they’re rippin’ apart a medic who would just as soon help them than not.”

                “Our goal is peace with the Decepticons, not their annihilation,” Optimus says softly. “And to manipulate the crew such – how would we be any better than the Decepticons?”

                Jazz locks optics with Optimus. “Sometimes… Sometimes ya gotta be a bad guy to be a good guy.”

                “I am not willing to let things go that far.” Optimus holds up a hand as Smokescreen and Ironhide both lean forward, opening their lip components. “I believe that it is necessary to put a stop to any rumors going around in regards to Ratchet’s condition. But I cannot condone retaliation. Prowl is right. The Decepticons may be desperate; they may have seen an opportunity to even the playing field. We will try negotiations first and ask for their surrender,” Optimus says, finishing firmly.

                “Yer too soft-sparked, Prime,” Ironhide protests. “This is Ratchet!”

                “This is more than just Ratchet,” Optimus replies. “Prowl, when would be the best time and place to arrange negotiations?”

                “Soon,” Prowl promptly replies. “Tomorrow at the latest. I will have to evaluate gathering places, but we can contact Megatron with our intent as soon as this meeting concludes.”

                “Find a meeting place,” Optimus instructs. “I will contact Megatron. After we speak, we can call for an assembly and lay to rest any rumors about Ratchet.”

                Ironhide looks disappointed, but nods his agreement. Jazz’s faceplates are carefully blank, his visor dim while Prowl is already busy with a data pad. Red Alert begins muttering to himself about camera angles.

                First Aid tentatively raises a hand and speaks when Optimus nods at him. “Then we can disperse? I’d like to check on Ratchet and Sideswipe.”

                “Go,” Optimus instructs. “Keep us updated.”

                “Of course,” the medic says, nodding. He quickly leaves, and Smokescreen moves to follow.

                “About a joor?” Ironhide gruffly asks, also standing. “That should be right around shift change.”

                “That should be a sufficient amount of time,” Optimus says. “We will have a ship wide announcement. Are they any other questions?”

                Silence greets him, and Optimus nods. “Then I will see everyone shortly.”

                As the room empties, Jazz stands and moves towards Optimus as he gains his feet.

                “Prime…” the saboteur begins.

                Optimus raises his hands, palm outwards to forestall any arguments. “We are better than they are,” he says.

                “Yeah, sure,” Jazz agrees easily. “I just think that Megatron believes that as well.” With that final parting shot, he saunters out of the room, leaving Optimus to stare with a frown at where the saboteur had stood.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't know what changed, but this time the Decepticons went too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark Fic, folks! Mentions of torture, rape, extreme violence. Present Tense. Changing POV, including omniscient POV. There are occasional unimportant OCs.

                 Sunstreaker strolls through Medical with barely a glance at the other mechs present. He momentarily pauses at the foot of Ratchet’s berth, and his optics trace over the medic’s still frame. His faceplates remain blank even as his hands slowly curl in and out of fists.

                The frontliner suddenly snorts and shakes his head. ‘Negotiations’. That’s what Prime had said during the meeting. Negotiations to arrange for the Decepticons’ surrender. As if that would happen. Several other members of the Ark had attempted to persuade Optimus into retaliation instead, but their protests were quickly shut down by either Prowl or Prime. Sunstreaker hadn’t said anything, merely watched as his spark twisted.

                The Decepticons were generally a sadistic bunch. They had had an opportunity, and they had taken it. It was simple as that, in Sunstreaker’s opinion. They might have been frustrated with the way things were run under Megatron, but no matter how bad conditions got, Sunstreaker doubted Megatron would ever willingly surrender to Prime. But Sunstreaker was just a frontliner; a frontliner with a brother who had helped put Ratchet into the condition he was currently in.

                Sunstreaker abruptly turns and moves towards the back of the bay, in the direction of the isolation rooms. Out of the corner of one optic he sees First Aid spot him from inside Ratchet’s office and hurry out, intent on intercepting him.

                “Sunstreaker!” First Aid calls, and the frontliner is already slowing, halfway turning to meet the acting CMO.

                “I’m worried about Sideswipe. At the normal rate of spread, the rust will shortly…”

                “I know,” Sunstreaker says, interrupting. Over the years, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had learned how to prevent pain and emotions from filtering down their link to each other. It had been a necessity both on and off the battlefield. 

                Now, however, Sideswipe’s blocks are faltering due to exhaustion. Over the last hour or so, Sunstreaker has become increasingly more aware that Sideswipe is hurting, both in frame and spark.

                “Come on. You can treat him,” Sunstreaker says, motioning the medic to follow.

                “I can?” First Aid asks, hustling along behind Sunstreaker. “Sideswipe will accept treatment now?”

                “Accept it? No. But he’ll get it anyway,” Sunstreaker says firmly, pausing outside the door to the room where Sideswipe is resting in.

                “But…” First Aid protests.

                “He’s in no condition to fight it. Just give me a second,” Sunstreaker says, pushing the door open. First Aid hovers in the doorway, his optics burning a hole in Sunstreaker’s backplate as he approaches his brother.

                Sideswipe is seated on top of the medical berth, his arms wrapped around his pulled up knees. His optics are fixed on the opposite wall, and he doesn’t even stir as Sunstreaker walks up to his side. Sunstreaker has to pause and push down the swell of rage caused by the sight of his subdued twin. Sideswipe’s been injured by Decepticons before; he’s been tortured, abused, and sustained battleground injuries that almost extinguished his spark. But Sideswipe’s never been damaged like this.

                Sunstreaker reaches out a hand and wraps it around the back of Sideswipe’s neck. Sideswipe stirs and turns his head to look at Sunstreaker.

                “Hey, Sunny,” Sideswipe says, vocalizer near to silent and optics dim.

                “Hey, Sides,” Sunstreaker replies, bending at the waist to rest his forehelm against Sideswipe’s. “I brought First Aid with me.”

                Sideswipe stiffens and tries to pull away, but Sunstreaker hangs on.  “No…” Sideswipe protests.

                “Yes. Hey. Hey, Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker says softly, his other hand coming up to rest on Sideswipe’s cheek strut. “Sideswipe. _Yes_.”

                Sideswipe’s optic shutters flutter, and Sunstreaker is suddenly reeling as Sideswipe’s blocks fall completely. Sunstreaker nearly drowns in the depth of Sideswipe’s guilt and despair. He’s in pain from his wounds, yes, but it is nothing, _nothing_ in comparison to the anguish he is feeling over causing harm to Ratchet. Sunstreaker allows himself to wallow in Sideswipe’s emotions for a few moments; Sunstreaker’s guilt is not as strong, but he doubts he will ever forgive himself for not being there when Ratchet and Sideswipe were captured.

                Sunstreaker wasn’t there then, but he is here now. He pulls back slightly from the bond and bundles up all his fear and worry about Sideswipe’s injuries. Then he shoves the bundle across to Sideswipe. Sunstreaker’s grip tightens as Sideswipe sways from the barrage of emotions.

                “Stop being stupid,” Sunstreaker rasps. “Ratchet will heal. No reason why you shouldn’t either.”

                “I hurt him,” Sideswipe whispers.

                “They hurt him _more_. They hurt him _first_. So get your aft better so we can go after those slaggers and teach them what it _really_ means to hurt,” Sunstreaker whispers back fiercely.

                Sunstreaker feels Sideswipe wavering, the thought of vengeance warring with guilt.

                _Sideswipe, please._ Sideswipe’s optics flicker and then cycle down at Sunstreaker’s unspoken plea. The bond between them quiets, Sideswipe’s guilt subsiding to a low throb. His optics reset and meet Sunstreaker’s, bright and focused once again.

                “We’ll rip ‘em apart,” Sideswipe promises, a look of fierce determination on his faceplates.

\--

                “Huh. That went well,” Jazz sarcastically remarks. He rotates his injured shoulder and frowns at the creak of the joint.

                Optimus remains silent as he stares down into the valley at Megatron’s retreating back. He hears the frustration in Jazz’s voice and empathizes. He and Prowl had been wrong. Megatron had no intent to surrender. He had scoffed at their offer and asked how Ratchet was doing with a sly smile. Optimus had had to restrain himself from leaping forward and breaking open Megatron’s helm to remove that smirk. The détente had quickly deteriorated shortly after, and Jazz and Optimus had barely escaped from the ambush Megatron had sprung upon them.

                “So what next, boss bot?” Jazz asks.

                Optimus turns to look at his third in command. The frame is loose and the faceplates open, but Optimus can still sense a tenseness surrounding the saboteur. Optimus knows that Jazz would like nothing more than to gather every able bodied mech and send them after Megatron. Right now, Optimus is sorely tempted to approve just such an action. But he reins in his temper and shakes his head slightly.

                “Let us make our way back home,” he says finally.

                “And then what?” Jazz says, pressing.

                “Enough, Jazz!” Optimus shouts. His voice echoes in the valley below them, and Jazz takes a step back, his frame drawn up tight.

                Optimus takes in a large amount of air and then ex-vents it slowly. “I apologize, Jazz, but I…”

                “No apologies needed, boss bot. Home it is.” Before Optimus can reply, Jazz is moving past him, in the direction of the Ark.

                Optimus lingers, taking one last glance at the empty valley. The scenery is beautiful and calming, but Optimus does not feel calm. He feels angry and impotent, uncertainty and guilt swirling inside his processor. Finally, he grits his denta and follows Jazz.

\--

                “Are you sure it’s not too early?” First Aid asks, rocking from side to side on his feet. “This is far sooner than I expected.”

                Wheeljack’s optics twinkle merrily as his helm fins flash. “You underestimate yourself, kid. You did a good job. There’s no reason Ratchet can’t come out of stasis; the optics and knee joints will take time, but Ratch is gonna need that time to work through things.”

                “Yes, but…”

                “Look – his systems are already booting up without a hitch,” Wheeljack says, pointing to the monitors.

                “Perfect startup,” First Aid says absently, his optics now tracking the numbers on the nearest screen. The medic suddenly whirls and reaches out to grasp Wheeljack’s arm.

                “What do I say?” First Aid asks, almost desperately. “How do I… maybe Smokescreen should be here as well.”

                “Right now, Ratch is just another patient,” Wheeljack responds, losing some of the sparkle in his optics. “He’s been through something incredibly traumatic, but you’re still his friend. And his doctor. Just say and do as you would normally.”

                “But…” First Aid trails off as Ratchet’s frame twitches, and the monitors begin beeping faster.

                “Keep in mind that he’ll be disorientated. And optically blind. So move slow and telegraph your movements,” Wheeljack adds, his own optics following the spasming of Ratchet’s fingers.

                “Right. Absolutely,” First Aid says absently, a hand held scanner at the ready in his hand. 

                A few more minutes pass as Ratchet’s systems boot up, one by one. Limbs begin moving sporadically and a nonsense murmur escape Ratchet’s lip components. First Aid anxiously shifts as Ratchet’s faceplates form a pained frown.

                “Ratchet? Ratchet, can you hear me?”

                At the sound of First Aid’s voice, Ratchet’s movements still into a tense readiness. His intakes pick up speed, sounding harsh in the quiet of the med bay.

                “Ratchet?” First Aid’s hand reaches out to touch Ratchet’s shoulder, but Wheeljack lashes out and grabs hold of First Aid’s wrist. First Aid looks at the scientist in alarm, but Wheeljack just shakes his head with a frown.

                “Hey, Ratch! Rise and shine, buddy. ‘Aid needs to run some diagnostics,” Wheeljack calls out cheerfully, the light tone at odds with the muted flashing of his helm fins.

                Ratchet’s frame jolts slightly at the sound of Wheeljack’s voice. The medic’s head shifts, the dark and shattered optics staring upwards sightlessly.

                “’Jack?” Ratchet asks, the normally strong voice turned tentative and soft.

                “Yeah, it’s me. You’re in Medical on the Ark. You’ve been in medical stasis for ...”

                “Two days and seven hours,” Ratchet finishes, proving that if nothing else, his chronometer works. “You do all this, First Aid?”

                “Well, Wheeljack and Perceptor helped a great deal,” First Aid replies demurely. Wheeljack shakes his head with a small laugh.

                “We helped, sure, but it was mostly ‘Aid.”

                “Optics?” Ratchet asks, obviously running a self-diagnostic.

                “Irreparable; the same goes for the stifle joints. I have the sensors in both places blocked. Wheeljack is working on fabricating replacements,” First Aid says.

                “Shouldn’t be too much longer for the knees,” Wheeljack says. “The optics… well, they’ll take a while. You know how our stores are.”

                “That’s understandable,” Ratchet murmurs. “Give me a hand up, will you, Jack?”

                “Oh, I’m not so sure…” First Aid protests even as Wheeljack squeezes between the apprentice and the berth. The scientist lays a hand on Ratchet’s wrist and then slides it up to the CMO’s shoulder before supporting Ratchet’s back as he sits up.

                “I’m fine,” Ratchet says, voice beginning to regain some of its gruffness.

                “You may be a little unsteady at first,” First Aid says, hands hovering as if expecting Ratchet to topple over at any second.

                “And why is that?” Ratchet asks. Wheeljack grins as Ratchet’s tone takes on the familiar quality of when he and First Aid converse over a patient.

                First Aid almost imperceptibly snaps to attention. “Because the magnesium phosphate traveled through the optic channel and corrupted several of the connections into the main processor. Those connections are right next to the ones of the equilibrium gyros which are extremely sensitive to any disruption.”

                “Correct,” Ratchet says. “And how do you fix such an injury?”

                “Well, in your case the injury was relatively minor, so self repair will handle it in time. If the connections had been corrupted beyond self repair, they would have had to be replaced, which can be quite tricky in that small of a space,” First Aid says, finishing up his recital of information.

                Ratchet nods, a small smile on his faceplates. “Very good, First Aid.”

                “You’re self repair should almost be done. Are you feeling better now? If not, the dizziness should pass very soon. How is your memory core? That processing all right as well?” First Aid asks. Then he winces as the smile fades from Ratchet’s faceplates.

                “Memory core intact and functioning at 100%,” Ratchet replies with an edge to his words.

                “Are you… do you…” First Aid pauses before taking in a large vent of air. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

                Ratchet reaches out towards the sound of First Aid’s voice. The apprentice gingerly meets Ratchet’s hand with his own, and First Aids jumps in surprise as Ratchet gently squeezes First Aid’s fingers.

                “You’ve done quite a bit. I’m in good hands,” Ratchet says, a ghost of a smile returning. Then Ratchet suddenly stills, and his helm turns, almost as if looking around the room.

                “I only sense our life signs. Where’s Sideswipe?”

                Wheeljack and First Aid exchange startled glances. “He… He’s in his room. I believe Sunstreaker is with him,” First Aid offers.

                Ratchet frowns. “Already? I thought for sure those burns would have penetrated deep enough to require surgical debridement. And the blaster shot to his side? That was still leaking badly when we were captured.”

                “Uh... the blaster wound wasn’t difficult; the energon and coolant lines had already self patched by the time I got to him. The burns… the burns were contaminated with rust, but I believe I removed it all before it could spread to his protoform,” First Aid says, carefully omitting the difficulties in treating the frontliner.

                “He’s on duty already?” Ratchet asks.

                First Aid shakes his head even though Ratchet can’t see it. “No, suspended from duty for another few days. I would have kept him in the med bay, but…” He looks helplessly at Wheeljack, and the scientist steps in.

                “He didn’t want to be here when you woke up,” Wheeljack says bluntly. “And with Sunny backing him, there wasn’t much we could do to keep him other than getting Prime and Ironhide down here. He promised to rest in their room. It… it seemed easiest.”

                Ratchet is silent for several moments. “Did he tell you what happened?”

                “He gave his report to Prime. I was there, and I needed to tell Aid as your attending physician,” Wheeljack says.

                Ratchet nods. “You have him scheduled for regular checkups?” he asks, tilting his head in First Aid’s direction. “You have to get on him, otherwise he won’t come in.”

                “I will, Ratchet,” First Aid says softly, faceplates a mixture of conflicting emotions at the concern Ratchet was showing towards one of his rapists.

                “Don’t you blame him,” Ratchet warns, squeezing First Aid’s fingers again, his grip firm and unyielding. “He thought it would spare me.”

                “But it didn’t!” First Aid blurts out. “It didn’t help anything!”

                “That wasn’t Sideswipe’s fault,” Ratchet says, tone steely. “I have no ill will towards Sideswipe and neither should you.”

                First Aid yanks his hand out of Ratchet’s grip, and the medic sways at the sudden loss of contact. Wheeljack frowns in disapproval even as he steadies Ratchet with a hand on his shoulder.

                “You trusted him!”

                “And I still do. You weren’t there, ‘Aid. Don’t presume.”

                When First Aid tries to speak again, Wheeljack shakes his head. His helm fins flash rapidly in warning, and First Aid subsides.

                “How you feeling there, Ratch?” Wheeljack asks instead, his optics flicking over to one of the monitors which was beeping angrily.

                Ratchet abruptly slumps, leaning towards Wheeljack. “Tired,” he admits. “I’ve got a doozy of a processor ache.”

                “Why don’t you lie back down and rest?” Wheeljack suggests. “Optimus is going to want to visit. He’s ecstatic that you’re out of stasis.”

                “That sounds like a pretty good idea, actually,” Ratchet replies, his earlier spirit disappearing as quickly as it came. He leans backwards with Wheeljack guiding him, until his back is flush against the berth surface.

                “I’m sorry, Ratchet,” First Aid says, his posture indicating revealing shame at upsetting his patient.

                “Don’t worry about it ‘Aid. You’re doing a good job. I’m proud of you,” Ratchet says, each word coming more and more slowly. He shifts once or twice and then sighs, quickly falling into recharge.

                First Aid busily examines the monitors and then his scanner before sighing in relief. “He’s fine.”

                “’Course he is. He’s been through a lot, and he’s disorientated, that’s all.” Wheeljack gazes down at his closest friend, the scientist’s hand still resting on Ratchet’s shoulder.

                “I didn’t mean to upset him. I just can’t see how he can forgive Sideswipe so easily,” First Aid mutters.

                “Like Ratch said… you weren’t there. _I_ don’t even get the relationship between Ratchet and those twins. But you can’t deny that there is one, and it’s special to all three of them.”

                First Aid shrugs, and he doesn’t answer. Wheeljack shakes his head before giving Ratchet’s shoulder one last pat.

                “I’ll be in my lab. You can comm me anytime.”

                “All right,” First Aid replies, head bowed over a data pad.

                Wheeljack begins to walk away and then stops. “First Aid. Imagine if it had been you in that cell. What would you have been willing to do in order for him to survive?” Without waiting for a response, he continues walking out of the room. First Aid stares after him, data pad loose in his fingers as his visor dims in thought. 

-

                Bluestreak knocks on the door and waits, fidgeting in place. He glances up and down the hallway as the seconds tick by. He isn’t sure he should be here, and he is just about to turn and walk away when the door slides to the side.

                “What do you want?” Sunstreaker growls. Bluestreak looks up at the large frontliner and holds up the energon cubes in his hands.

                “It’s pretty crowded in the rec room tonight,” Bluestreak says, smiling hopefully.

                He hasn’t seen Sideswipe in almost four days. The rumors going around are that the red frontliner had something to do with Ratchet’s capture, and he is under investigation. Bluestreak knows in his spark that such a rumor is false, but he still doesn’t know why Sideswipe hasn’t made an appearance.

                “Let him in, Sunny,” Sideswipe’s voice says, floating from inside the room. Sunstreaker’s optics rake over Bluestreak’s form before he grudgingly gestures Bluestreak inside.

                Bluestreak follows Sunstreaker in, pausing in the center of the room as he ponders his seating options. Sunstreaker plops down on the couch next to his brother, Sideswipe snuggling back into Sunstreaker’s side. Bluestreak could sit on Sunstreaker’s other side, but the golden twin is giving Bluestreak unfriendly looks so he places the cubes down on the table in front of the couch and then lowers himself to the floor by Sideswipe’s feet.

                Sideswipe’s optics watch Bluestreak’s motions with a blank expression. He accepts the cube Sunstreaker hands him with a nod.

                “So how’s it going, Blue? Thanks, by the way,” Sideswipe says, tipping the cube towards Bluestreak before taking a sip.

                “It’s ok. I haven’t seen you in a while. Sunstreaker’s been by the common room, but I haven’t seen you there or seen you on the duty roster, and I just wanted to make sure you were ok. Are you ok?” Bluestreak asks, his optics seeking out and noting the marred patches of armor on Sideswipe’s chassis.

                “I’m all right. Healing up.”

                “What happened? No one’s seen Ratchet either although First Aid says he’s out of stasis. ‘Aid’s not allowing any visitors – he says that Ratchet needs to rest.”

                Bluestreak can feel Sunstreaker’s glare, and he automatically flinches when Sunstreaker shifts on the couch.

                “You were at the assembly, weren’t you? You heard Optimus,” Sunstreaker growls.

                Bluestreak blinks, remembering Optimus’ vague report of how Sideswipe and Ratchet had been captured. Ratchet had sustained serious, but not life-threatening injuries, at the hands of the Decepticons. Optimus had alluded that Ratchet had been tortured, but did not go into any details. Sideswipe had barely been mentioned.

                “Optimus didn’t really say all that much,” Bluestreak says hesitantly.

                “Probably because there’s not much to say,” Sunstreaker snaps, still glaring.

                Sideswipe sighs, nudging his twin. “Stop it, Sunny. It’s just Blue.”

                Sideswipe turns his attention back to Bluestreak, and the gunner gets a sinking feeling in his spark. Sideswipe looks so tired, so weary. The Decepticon brig was never a walk in the park; Bluestreak remembers the one time he had been captured with a shudder. But Sideswipe had been captured before and never came back looking so… beaten.

                “They tortured Ratchet pretty bad, Blue. He’s not out of med bay yet, because Jack and Percy have to make parts from scrap; Ratch is an older model. I’m sure we don’t have a lot of optics in his frame type lying around.”

                “Optics?” Bluestreak squeaks. “They destroyed his optics?”

                Sideswipe nods. “Among other things.”

                “What about you? What did they do to you?” Bluestreak asks, unable to identify the type of wound the warrior had sustained.

                Sideswipe grimaces, shifting to point at the vertical stripes of paint loss on his chassis. “This? Kinda did that to myself. The ‘cons learned not to get too close to my cell after I grabbed one and ripped out his energon line,” Sideswipe said, a feral grin spreading across his faceplates.

                Bluestreak trembles, his armor plates rattling a little. He stares up at Sideswipe with no little awe, always impressed with the twins’ capabilities on the battlefield.

                “So they tortured Ratchet? Why Ratchet? How come we aren’t doing something about it?” Bluestreak asks, suddenly catching on to the fact that the Decepticons had _tortured_ Ratchet. Ratchet, the cranky, self-sacrificing medic that everyone both feared and loved. Bluestreak straightens, a sort of righteous fury running through his lines.

                “Prime wanted to try negotiating with Megatron for the Decepticons surrender,” Sunstreaker spits.

                “Negotiate?” Bluestreak asks doubtfully. “Would that really work?”

                “It didn’t,” Sunstreaker snorts. “Jazz said Megs just turned right around and tried to shoot Prime’s head off when they met.”

                “So what now?” Bluestreak asks indignantly. “We can’t just let this go!”

                “We won’t,” Sideswipe answers for his brother. Sunstreaker subsides, shifting to better curl around Sideswipe. Bluestreak notices for the first time how protective Sunstreaker’s position is.

                “Don’t you worry, Blue. I remember each and every Decepticon that laid a hand on Ratchet. And they’ll all going to regret it.” Sideswipe says this with such a cold seriousness that an uneasy shiver runs up Bluestreak’s backstruts. Bluestreak can’t recall another time when he’d seen such a dark look in Sideswipe’s optics. Bluestreak’s suddenly very glad that he’s on the Autobot side.

-

                “Oh, they’re at it again,” Blaster says grimly, fingers flying over the main console of Teletraan 1.

                Optimus turns from his conversation with Prowl and comes up behind the communications officer. “What is it?”

                “Decepticons. Looks like they’re trying to break into the nuclear power plant outside Phoenix,” Blaster says, pointing to the map he pulls up on the main screen.

                Optimus nods before opening up a ship-wide communications channel. “Decepticons have been sighted near Phoenix. Ironhide, we’ll need your squad. Meet me down in the loading bay. Skyfire: be prepared to take off in five.”

                Prime disconnects the channel and turns to Prowl. “Prowl, keep me posted of any other activity. This could be a diversion.”

Prowl nods as Optimus turns and leaves. The executive officer catches Blaster staring longingly after their leader. “What is it?”

                Blaster shakes himself and turns his attention back to the screens in front of him. “Oh, nothing. This is just the first time that we’ll be fighting ‘cons since Ratchet. Sure wish I could go with them, get a few hits in for him.”

                Prowl frowns. “That will be unnecessary,” he says. “Optimus and Ironhide’s squad should be more than sufficient.”

                “Well, yeah, I know. Not doubting them at all,” Blaster says, shrugging. “Just want… you know… a little payback, is all.”

                “No, I’m sure I don’t know,” Prowl murmurs, his sensory panels stiff. His faceplates are thoughtful, however, even as his sharp optics watch the monitors.

\--

                Ironhide absently watches his soldiers file into Skyfire’s interior. He shrugs his shoulders, nodding to Cliffjumper as the minibot passes in front of him. It’s been six days since Sideswipe carried Ratchet back into the Ark, and Ironhide has been antsy ever since. The negotiation talk had been a huge failure; maybe this was their chance to get some payback. 

                He’s distracted by thoughts of Decepticons exploding into pieces at the end of his cannon when a flash of something bright catches his optic.

                “Woah, woah, where do ya think yer going?” Ironhide asks, catching hold of the collar farings of two subtly vibrating warriors.

                Sunstreaker snarls, jerking from his grasp, and Ironhide quickly lets Sideswipe go upon seeing the baleful glare the red frontliner is sending him.

                “On the mission,” Sideswipe replies, hefting his rifle over his shoulder. He says it nonchalantly as if he hasn’t been a ghost in the Ark corridors for the past week.

                “Yer off duty,” Ironhide points out.

                “I’m fine,” Sideswipe says, spreading his arms out to the side. “I’m in perfect health.” The normal grin is wide across his faceplates, but the smile hasn’t made its way to the empty optics.

                Ironhide scans Sideswipe’s frame; the wounds he had been sporting when extracted from the Nemesis appeared to be healed. The armor on his chassis hadn’t been painted yet; streaks of primer white show the preparation for a new paintjob, probably in progress as the call had gone across the ship.

                Ironhide opens his lip plates to order them off Skyfire, but Sunstreaker steps forward and catches Ironhide’s optic.

                “Don’t,” Sunstreaker says softly. “We need to be there.”

                Exventing loudly, Ironhide glances from one brother to the next. He knows why they want on this mission. The same reason he’s glad his squad was called. But Pit if he’ll spend time in the brig for bringing along a mech who is technically still supposed to be in med bay.

 _Ironhide, are we set?_ Optimus voice asks, patched through Skyfire’s comm.

                “Ironhide, please,” Sideswipe says, his optics burning with a desperation that tugs at Ironhide’s spark.

                “Oh, go on. Git in there already!” Ironhide finally says, making shooing motions with his hands. Sideswipe gives him a grateful look and then hurries after his brother. Ironhide stomps up Skyfire’s loading ramp and hits the door release, muttering a ‘sorry’ when Skyfire protests the rough treatment.

                At least if he’s gonna spend the next few nights in the brig, it will be for a good cause.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't know what changed, but this time the Decepticons went too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark Fic, folks! Mentions of torture, rape, extreme violence. Present Tense. Changing POV, including omniscient POV. There are occasional unimportant OCs.

                No one is quite prepared for the viciousness of the twins’ attack. Optimus had frowned when he had seen them file out of Skyfire, but by that time, the Autobots had been under fire from Starscream’s trine. Optimus couldn’t very well order some of his best fighters to stay out of things at that point.

                For several minutes, everything was relatively normal. Megatron taunted Optimus, Starscream taunted Megatron, and the Autobots did their best to avoid taking fire while trying to usher humans out of the danger zone.

                Later, Cliffjumper would report that he had been closest to the twins as they were firing at Thundercracker and Skywarp. The minibot had heard Sunstreaker ask his brother ‘is that one of them?’ Sideswipe had responded in the affirmative and shortly after, the entire battle had slowly come to a stop as chilling screams of panic and pain rose in intensity.

                Now Autobots and Decepticons alike break off from fighting and stand staring, shocked and aghast as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker tear into Drag Strip. The twins were known for their deadly skills, were known to be enjoy a good fight. But no one had ever seen them methodically strip armor plating away to expose the raw sensors beneath. No one had ever witnessed such cold fury in their optics as they twisted limbs to the breaking point and then kept twisting.

                Sideswipe’s fingers are deep into Drag Strip’s pelvic assembly before anyone can come to their senses. Optimus orders Ironhide with him, and together they rush the twins as Megatron orders a hasty retreat. The Decepticons flee, faceplates uneasy as they hold precious energon cubes to their chasses.

                The brothers cease their activity as soon as Ironhide and Optimus are in reach. Sunstreaker flicks energon from his fingers with a look of utmost disdain as Sideswipe stands, stepping over Drag Strip’s twitching legs. The red frontliner tosses something over his shoulder and as he moves up next to Sunstreaker, Ironhide and Optimus can see the gaping hole where Drag Strip’s interface array should be.

                “We done so soon, boss?” Sideswipe asks, sheathing an energon blade into subspace. The warrior is all smiles and bright optics, like he had just pulled a wondrous prank.

                Optimus is speechless for several seconds, optics traveling from Drag Strip’s ravaged form to the twins. “Yes. We’re done,” he finally says gravely. “Go back to Skyfire.”

                His head rises, and he looks at the rest of the Autobots gathered, still motionless and gaping. “All of you. Back to Skyfire. We’ll leave shortly.”

                Shrugging, Sideswipe starts forward, Sunstreaker a bright, silent shadow at his side. The rest of the Autobots quickly move out of their way, fear and respect mingling on their faceplates. One by one, they follow the twins, but at a wary distance.

                 Optimus gazes down on the Decepticon at his feet for several moments while Ironhide stares after the twins, optics wide.

                “I ain’t never seen them do something like that,” Ironhide says softly, judging them to be out of audio range. “What are we going to do with ‘im?” he asks, his gaze coming to rest on Drag Strip.

                The Decepticon’s one working optic is staring up at them pleadingly, lip components moving silently. Drag Strip’s neck is a mangled mess; the reason for the sudden cut off of his screams is now apparent as the edges of his crushed vocalizer peep out between the few remaining strips of neck plating.

                Optimus looks up and around at the desolate desert surrounding the power plant. Besides the humans milling at the far entrance, the area is deserted.

                “We will take him with us,” Optimus says finally. “Stabilize him and then trade him back. Megatron will want him back; Menasor will be incomplete otherwise.”  

                “What are we goin’ to do about the twins?” Ironhide asks as he steps forward and carefully lifts the Decepticon into his arms. Ironhide flinches at the pained gurgle Drag Strip produces.

                “I will speak with them upon our return. Why were they even here?” Optimus asks as he walks alongside Ironhide.

                Ironhide keeps his gaze focused on Skyfire’s awaiting ramp. “They’re parta my squad.”

                Optimus glances sidelong at Ironhide. “We will speak about this as well, upon our return.”

                The only reply is a large exvent from Ironhide.

\--

                “This type of behavior is inexcusable,” Prowl announces. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stare back at the executive officer with blank faceplates and remain silent.

                “It is conduct inappropriate for an Autobot faction member,” Prowl continues. “I would expect savagery like this from our Decepticons foes, not one of my own soldiers! On top of that, we wasted valuable resources on stabilizing Drag Strip and returning him to the Nemesis. Resources that should have been allotted to one of our own.”

                “We didn’t tell Optimus to bring him back,” Sideswipe points out. “Decepticons left him there. Maybe we should have too.”

                Prowl stares aghast at the unrepentant faceplates of the warriors seated in front of him. A clip of Jazz’s voice resurfaces in his memory core, and he shudders as he reviews it. ‘Well, they ain’t seen nothing yet.’

                Indeed.

-

                “You two are idiots,” Ratchet announces as soon as he enters the brig.

                “Well, hello to you too, Ratchet,” Sideswipe quips as he rolls to his side and stands. Ratchet orientates himself on the sound of Sideswipe’s voice and makes his way over to Sideswipe’s cell. Wheeljack follows behind, keeping a sharp optic out for objects that could get in Ratchet’s way.

                “You’re up and about,” Sideswipe comments.

                “He gets bored faster than you do when he’s laid up,” Wheeljack comments, easily ducking Ratchet’s irritated swipe. “It was more self preservation than anything. I’m still working on the optics though,” he says referring to the dark, empty sockets in Ratchet’s head.

                “How is he getting around?” Sideswipe asks curiously, threading his arms through the bars and resting a cheek strut against one. His optics follow Ratchet’s slow march down the hallway between cells.

                “ _He_ is right here,” Ratchet says irritably. “And _he_ has perfectly fine proximity sensors and audio triangulation. I’m blind, not stupid.”

                Ratchet reaches the front of Sideswipe’s cage and would have kept going except for Sideswipe’s outstretched hand on the medic’s chassis. Both Sideswipe and Ratchet freeze at the contact. Sideswipe whips his arm back so quickly, there’s a shriek of metal as his armor scrapes across the bars.

                Ratchet clears his intakes, reaching up and grasping a bar to orient himself. “I’ve only been up for a few hours. I’m still learning,” he mutters.

                Crossing his arms over his chassis, Sideswipe nods rapidly, gaze locked on the floor. “You’ll get there. Sunny did the same thing. Remember? Right after that battle out of Vinsul 4?”

                Ratchet nods and then his head tilts to the side. “Where is your brother? Or is he just being shy?”

                Sideswipe shuffles his feet before sighing. “He’s in the hole,” he says, his head rising to stare down the length of the hallway to where the isolation room is.

                “What?” Ratchet asks, startled. “Why?”

                Sideswipe shrugs. “That’s part of the punishment. Keeping us separated. I told Prowl I would go into isolation, but he insisted on Sunstreaker.”

                Staring sightlessly at Sideswipe, Ratchet’s grip on the bar tightens. “You shouldn’t have done it, Sides,” he says softly.

                “Done what? Wasn’t that bad,” Sideswipe returns, shrugging it off.

                “Just blind remember? Still have my hands, and I could feel the damage. That was cruel.”

                Sideswipe reacts so fast that Wheeljack involuntarily takes a step back when the warrior rushes the front of the cell. He takes hold of the bars on either side of Ratchet’s and leans down, optics burning.

                “He was cruel to you! He’s gonna think twice about ever laying a hand on you or another Autobot again!” Sideswipe hisses.

                “And the others? Are you going to hunt each one of them down and do the same?” Ratchet demands. “It’s never going to end, Sideswipe! Their friends will come after you or Sunstreaker, and you’ll retaliate, and it’s never going to stop!”

                “So what?” Sideswipe retorts hotly. “You want me to just let this go? They’re gloating! They almost killed Prime and Jazz when they went for negotiations! They think they’ve won!”

                “Yes!” Ratchet shouts. “Yes, I want you to let this go,” he says, voice lowering in volume. “It’s not going to fix anything. It’s not going to take your guilt away.”

                Sideswipe stills, optics wide. He moves to take a step back, and Ratchet unerringly reaches out and clamps down on Sideswipe’s hand. Sideswipe tugs, but is obviously unwilling to do anything to hurt the medic.

                “Is that what you want? Retaliation? You want the same treatment you gave to that Decepticon?” Ratchet asks softly.

                A subtle shiver winds its way up Sideswipe’s arms to his upper body. “I deserve it,” he whispers. “I hurt you.”

                Ratchet growls, his other arm reaching through the bars to grope for and find Sideswipe’s shoulder. He yanks the warrior closer and then whaps him upside the head. Sideswipe takes the hit meekly and even leans into the touch when Ratchet’s hand comes to gently rest on Sideswipe’s helm.

                “You didn’t hurt me,” Ratchet says. “I remember pain, Sides. Before, after. But not from you. Idiot,” Ratchet says again.

                “But I…”

                Ratchet yanks, and Sideswipe’s helm meets the bars with a clank. Wheeljack winces along with Sideswipe. Ratchet leans forward, going up on tiptoe to rest his forehelm against the frontliner’s.

                “I forgive you.”

                Sideswipe makes a small hurt sound and closes his optics. “How can you?”

                “It doesn’t matter how I can, only that I do. I even forgive you for ripping apart Drag Strip. But you treat any more ‘cons with unnecessary force, and you should expect to be turned into a toaster when you least expect it. Understand me, glitch?” The words are threatening, but Ratchet’s tone is soft and fondly exasperated.

                There is a long pause in which Sideswipe’s ventilations slow and synchronize with Ratchet’s. Then Sideswipe’s optics open, and he straightens, Ratchet’s hand falling to Sideswipe’s shoulder.

                “Yes, Ratchet,” Sideswipe replies, a small smile creeping across his faceplates.

                Ratchet nods once and steps back away from the bars. “Good. I expect you’ve already relayed all that to Sunny?”

                Sideswipe nods and then hurriedly says ‘yes’ when he remembers Ratchet’s blindness.

                “Yeah, he got it all. But you might want to threaten him personally. You know, just so he has the true Hatchet experience,” Sideswipe says, a grin tugging at the corners of his lipplates. 

                “I think I will. Remember… no more fragging up ‘cons! You two already give me enough work to do as it is.”

                With that, Ratchet whirls on one foot, teeters a bit and then marches off down the hall, apparently intent on speaking with Sunstreaker. The smile fades from Sideswipe’s faceplates as Wheeljack strolls closer and leans against the bars. They both carefully watch Ratchet’s progress.

                “He’s gonna be ok, right?” Sideswipe asks lowly.

                Wheeljack nods. “He will. Ratchet’s a tough mech. You know that.”

                “Yeah. Keep an eye on him,” Sideswipe advises, hissing in sympathy as Ratchet walks too far and bounces off the door to isolation. Deep within the shadows of the darkened interior, Sunstreaker’s optics unerringly track Ratchet’s movements.

                “Sure will. And once the two of you are out of here, I’m going to be counting on you to help me out. Cuz I can’t be with him all the time; got some new projects cooking.”

                Sideswipe’s helm swivels to stare at Wheeljack in surprise. “Yeah, of course. Whatcha  
working on?”

                Wheeljack’s optics meet Sideswipe’s. The frontliner tilts his head to the side in wary consideration as the engineer’s side fins flash a sickly green color. 

                “Hey, Ratch told you two no more unnecessary force. He never said anything else to the rest of us.”

                Sideswipe’s expression turns shrewd. He leans forward to speak in an even lower volume. “You let me know when you’re done with your projects, ‘Jack.  I can give the names of some volunteer test subjects.”

                “Sure thing. I’m always looking for some good guinea pigs.”

\--

                Silence reigns in the command center as Optimus gazes upon the central monitor. Prowl is staring just as intently, but both Jazz and Ironhide are looking to Optimus with expectant expressions.

                “Well? We going, boss bot?” Jazz asks eagerly. Prowl’s optics flicker to the side, but he doesn’t speak.

                Optimus stares a bit more and then his shoulders slump, just a little. “Autobots!” he says, over a general communications channel. “Roll out!”

\--

                Jazz doesn’t know who is managing the Nemesis, because from all appearances the entirety of the ship’s crew is here in this tiny, dusty valley. There is a small clump of Decepticons guarding the material that had been removed from the now destroyed human’s nuclear missile silo; the rest of the ‘cons are scattered on the north end of the valley exchanging blaster volleys with the Autobot troops.

                Both sides have good cover; there are abundant natural rock formations everywhere. The Seekers have been making strafing runs, but both Prowl and Bluestreak have excellent vantage points and each shot has been accurate enough to deter the flighted mechs from truly inflicting damage.

                All in all, things appear to be in a stalemate. An extremely frustrating stalemate, in Jazz’s opinion. He’s seen several opportunities for advancement, but each suggestion has been vetoed by either Prowl or Optimus. Each time for good reasons, but Jazz cannot erase the image capture of Megatron looming over Ratchet’s mangled frame. Jazz is well and truly tired of seeing his friends damaged at the hands of Decepticons; he just wants it _over_ and today seems to be a good a day as any.

                As if echoing his thoughts, Megatron’s voice echoes across the battlefield, calling for a retreat. Jazz pops his head up and scowls at Megatron’s imposing frame. The Decepticon leader has emerged from his cover and is standing enticingly in the open. Jazz cannot resist. He darts from behind his bit of rock and scuttles forward, taking advantage of more outcroppings and advancing far beyond the unofficial Autotbot front line.

Once within blaster range of his foe, he kneels and steadies his arm against a boulder.  He sets his sights, and his finger is on the trigger when he hears shouts behind him. The yells alert Megaton, and the shot misses its mark by a foot, ricocheting off Megatron’s shoulder armor. A baleful red-opticed gaze turns and finds Jazz’s own. Megatron inclines his head in Jazz’s direction with a smirk.

                “Having difficulty controlling your soldiers, Prime?” Megatron calls out across the battlefield. Jazz grips his blaster tight, resisting breaking cover by a very slim thread of control. He wants the war over, but he’d also like to be able to survive the end of it. Not many besides Prime can take on Megatron and stay online. At least not head to head.

And speak of the Devil. Jazz glances over his shoulder to see Optimus coming up behind him, probably to escort Jazz back. 

                “I think you should look to your own,” Optimus replies, glancing briefly at Starscream as the Seeker and his trinemates land near the entrance the Decepticons had used to enter the valley.

                Megatron’s faceplates twist into a snarl at the subtle reminder of his treacherous second in command. Then the expression smoothes out into a smile. “Oh, trust me, Optimus. I take care of my troops. Shelter, energon… even entertainment. Do pass along my regards to Ratchet, won’t you? It was so nice of him to offer up his services.”

                Jazz is on his feet before he even realizes he had moved. His momentum is halted by Optimus’ hand on Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz looks up to see Optimus’ faceplates set in a carefully neutral expression.

                “Ya can’t be serious!” Jazz spits. “He’s _right there_!”

                “He has called for a retreat,” Optimus replies.

                “Frag a retreat!” Jazz hisses. “He let each and every ‘con abuse Ratchet for hours! Ya can’t just let him get away with that! With everything he’s done!”

                “Megatron will pay for his crimes. But not today,” Optimus says, pulling on Jazz. Jazz jerks himself out of the Prime’s grip. “We are outnumbered.”

                Jazz abruptly changes tactics, stepping forward and widening his optics. “Did ya know he was callin’ for ya? Ratchet was in so much pain, and he was callin’ for _you_ … _begging_ for ya to make it stop, Optimus,” Jazz says softly. “But ya weren’t there. Ya couldn’t help him. 

                “What ‘bout the next Autobot who gets captured? They’ll rip Prowl apart cuz he’s second in command. And Blaster? Soundwave will offline his symbiotes and make him watch as he does it. What do ya think they’ll do to little Blue? Ratchet’s a strong mech, but he’s having troubles copin’. How do ya think Blue will manage?

                “They _laughed_ , Optimus,” Jazz continues, seeing Optimus’ expression turn stricken at the thought of more of his Autobots hurt. “They laughed and jeered and called Ratchet a whore bot. They said he loved it cuz he didn’t fight back. And Megatron smiled and held Ratchet’s chestplates open for the first mech who wanted his spark,” Jazz spat.

                Optimus’ optics flick to the side to fixate on Megatron as Jazz continues. Jazz sees his Prime shaking with anger and presses on, relentless.

                “They’ll do it again, soon as they have a chance. Ya know it. And it will be like yer the one doing it, because ya won’t stop them. Ya won’t stop _him_. And yer the only one who can,” Jazz says, his voice soft. Sad. Disappointed.

                Jazz’s words have their desired effect. Optimus leaps forward with a growl, likely with processor visions of mangled and dying Autobots. Jazz raises his head in triumph and smirks at Megatron, taking an image capture of Megatron’s surprised expression as Optimus barrels across the battleground.

                The rest of the Autobots see their leader charge forward and take it as a sign to do so as well, despite Prowl’s shouts over the general comms.

                **What did you do? What did you say to him?** Prowl asks over a private line. **You provoked him, didn’t you? You manipulated his feelings about Ratchet’s capture.**

                **Prime was already provoked. He just didn’t know it** , Jazz replies, lipplates twisted in a vicious sneer as he watches chaos erupt around him. He _had_ manipulated Optimus, but this was what needed to happen. The war had been stalemated for too long, and Ratchet was the ultimate tipping point.

                **The casualties will be overwhelming** , Prowl says. **This is on _you_ , Jazz. **

**I think you’re going to be surprised, Prowler. Just have a little faith in the righteous, ok?**

Prowl doesn’t bother to answer Jazz. He stops calling for the Autobots to cease their activities and gives in to the inevitable. HInstead he begins giving orders to any mech that will listen, directing them to most efficiently subdue the Decepticons. Jazz has to admire Prowl’s tenacity and skill; under Prowl’s direction, Decepticons are beginning to surrender. Fear is written on many faceplates; fear and horror at the way Autobots are tossing aside their weapons and leaping bodily on the nearest Decepticon.

                Confident that Prowl has command, Jazz surveys the battlefield more closely. He’s trying to determine where he’s best needed, while also enjoying the mayhem that his fellow Autobots are dishing out. Out of the corner of one optic, Jazz sees Ironhide pummeling Dirge with a satisfied grin. Ironhide is obviously happy to finally be taking out his own frustrations regarding Ratchet’s torture on the medic’s former torturers.

                Several yards away from Ironhide, Wildrider looks panicked as Mirage and Bumblebee begin advancing on him. Intent on joining his subordinates, he is brought up short by a data burst from Wheeljack. Upon opening it, he sees that it has been sent to every Autobot on the field and simply contains a list of names and a message: ‘The name of every Decepticon who laid a hand on Ratchet. Just thought you should know, Sideswipe’.

                Several Autobots stop what they are doing to absorb the information.  In the momentary pause, a large explosion goes off on the opposite side of the field. Jazz whirls around to see Wheeljack speed through the cloud of smoke and debris and transform. He removes several items from subspace and lobs them with unerring accuracy at the closest Decepticons, Ramjet and Motormaster. Then the engineer transforms again and zooms away, not staying to watch the Decepticons’ frantic attempts to dislodge the sticky objects. Moments later the small bombs explode, sending body parts flying. Wheeljack keeps going, his headlights flashing merrily through the smoke now spreading across the valley.

                Jazz hears a yell behind him, and he turns to see Bluestreak running from his sniper position. He gathers momentum and leaps on the back of a Decepticon that Cliffjumper is tangling with. The Decepticon drops, and Jazz watches all the hand to hand practice the twins gave Bluestreak finally pay off. The sniper subdues the Decepticon in quick order, whipping out a pair of electrocuffs that Prowl must have given him. Raising his head, Jazz sees that Prowl is carefully monitoring his mentoree’s actions, Prowl’s own rifle steadily trained on the Decepticon.

                A pained cry to the other side of him catches Jazz’s attention. Brawn has Rumble cornered. The cassette is battered, but is bravely holding his head up even as he quakes in fear. Jazz moves forward, leaping over a groaning, incapacitated Decepticon. The saboteur catches Brawn’s wrist just before he brings his blaster to bear on Rumble. Jazz has to duck and back peddle to avoid Brawn’s ensuing swing.

                “Mech, hey! It’s Jazz!”

                Brawn stumbles to a stop as he sees another Autobot instead of a Decepticon. He glances over his shoulder at Rumble. “Sorry, Jazz. Didn’t know it was you. You want him?”

                Jazz looks Rumble over, the ‘con staring at him warily. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Jazz says slowly. “Ask Prowl what you can do next.”

                Brawn nods and shakes a fist in a threatening manner at Rumble before loping away. Rumble keeps his optics on Jazz the whole time.

                “I ain’t afraid of ya,” Rumble announces defiantly. The quaver in his voice betrays him.

                “Ya should be,” Jazz replies. “But not today. Ya weren’t there. I didn’t see any of your siblings or Soundwave there with Ratchet. Why?”

                Rumbles optics widen, and he glances around them with a greater understanding on his faceplates.

                “That’s what this is about? The stupid medic?”

                Jazz steps forward menacingly. “Watch your mouth. That ‘stupid medic’ is worth more than one hundred of ya. I won’t repeat myself: why?”

                 “Soundwave wanted no part of it. He monitored the comms and made us stay in our room. Said not to go down to the brig even if Megatron ordered us to.”

                Rumble’s faceplates twist in disgust. “Even if Soundwave hadn’t said anything, none of us were interested in… that. He may have been an Autobot, but he ain’t ever done anything to us.”

                Jazz carefully scans Rumble’s faceplates, searching for any sign of a lie. He doesn’t find one. Soundwave and his symbiotes are not innocents in the war, but neither did they take part in Ratchet’s torture.

                “What about Starscream?” Jazz asks, recalling another notable mech that had not been present.

                “Screamer gets enough beatings from Megatron. He puts on an act for the boss, but he leaves an interrogation pretty quick once it starts getting real rough; he’ll make Hook or StopGap do it. ‘Warp doesn’t have the patience for it, and TC thinks it’s cruel.” Rumble’s expression suddenly turns anxious. “Don’t let anyone know I said that.”

                Jazz snorts. “I’ll be sure to keep it quiet. Now git on outta here. Go on, bitlet. Find your brothers and tell Soundwave that he gets a pass this time.”

                The cassette stares at Jazz in disbelief. “Yeah, right. Soon as I walk away, you’ll shoot me in the back!”

                Ex-venting, Jazz shakes his head. “I ain’t a ‘con, kid.”

                He turns and strides in the opposite direction, his backplates prickling. He may not have shot the youngling in the back, but there’s no guarantee that Rumble won’t do the same. Jazz is betting on the kid’s shock and fear that he’ll stay his blaster, though.

                Several yards away, Jazz stops and glances over his shoulder to see Rumble slinking between tussling piles of mechs. Jazz takes a moment to send out a general comms indicating that Soundwave and his cassettes are not to be harmed. He gets a few complaints, but they are half-hearted. When so many names on the list are present, letting a few mechs go seems like a good exchange.

                A flash of sun on metal catches Jazz’s optic, and he looks up across the valley to see Starscream staring back at him from a high outcropping of rock. Skywarp and Thundercracker are crouched down behind him, faceplates grim. Starscream, on the other hand, has a smug air about him. Jazz and Starscream both turn their heads at the crash of Megatron and Optimus colliding in the middle of the valley. They are still furiously trading blows. Megatron appears to have lost the use of one arm, but he continues fighting with a cocky confidence.

                Jazz carefully watches the Seekers. If they chose to take part in this, the battle could be easily swayed in the Decepticon favor. But Starscream observes his master for a moment and then turns, gesturing for his trinemates to transform. Before he joins them, he glances once more at Jazz. Starscream holds Jazz’s gaze for a long moment before jumping into the air and transforming, jetting away in the direction of the Nemesis.

                Jazz ex-vents in relief and then whips around as he hears a footfall behind him. He lowers his blaster as Prowl placidly returns Jazz’s stare.

                “Soundwave and Starscream?”

                “They weren’t on the list,” Jazz replies.

                “That could come back to haunt us.”

                Jazz shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. But I think we got enough to worry about here,” he says, gesturing to the battlefield around them.

                “My calculations did not include this,” Prowl says. The tactician is as stoic as ever, but above all, Jazz knows that Prowl is just worried about the safety of the troops.

Before Jazz can reply, the ground shakes from where Optimus has thrown Megatron. The Decepticon leader is heavily dented and dusty, but his optics sparkle with delight as Optimus rushes him again. Megatron, perhaps foolishly, begins taunting the Prime with more descriptions of Ratchet’s torture. This only spurns Optimus to a higher frenzy, and Jazz marvels at the speed and force behind each of Optimus’ hits. Megatron’s armor begins visibly buckling beneath the punches, and as Megatron is forced to one knee, everyone present can see the look of uncertainty that crosses his faceplates.

                Uncertainty turns to alarm as Optimus unsheathes his sword and raises it above his head. Megatron tries to raise his remaining arm to ward off the blow, but his shoulder sparks and shrieks in protest at the movement. Optimus easily bats Megatron’s hand to the side and grips the Decepticon leader by the throat.

                “This ends now, Megatron!” Optimus roars, and the loud, commanding voice echoes across the battlefield. Autobot fists pause, Autobot feet take a step backwards, and wise Decepticons who are able to take the opportunity to scramble away from their attackers.

                “You are beaten,” Optimus announces. “Do you yield?”

                “Yield? To you?” Megatron laughs, vocalizer rasping. “To a soft-sparked Autobot scum who can’t even protect his own? Never,” Megatron says, spitting a wad of undigested energon at Optimus’ feet. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

                Jazz cannot see Optimus’ faceplates. He wishes he could; something there causes Megatron to thrash in the Prime’s grip, honest to Primus fear written in Megatron’s optics.

                Megatron tries but cannot escape.

                Optimus’ sword swings down in a glittering arc. It makes a clear, ringing sound as it pierces Megatron’s armor covering his spark and out through the Decepticon leader’s back.

                The battleground is utterly silent. Mechs from both sides are still, mouthplates agape and optics wide. Even Jazz is frozen in shock; millennia of war, and it is all over in a spark beat.

                The sword is pulled free, and Megatron’s graying frame collapses to the unyielding ground. Optimus takes a step back, flicking the sword and sending droplets of Megatron’s energon flying. Optimus is now in profile as he studies Megatron’s body; the sorrowful expression on Optimus faceplates’ makes something twist deep in Jazz’s spark.             

                He refuses to acknowledge it. Jazz wishes he could have spared Optimus this pain, but Megatron’s death is long overdue.

                “Was that part of your calculations today?” Jazz asks, sneaking a glance at Prowl. The tactician solemnly regards Jazz as Prowl’s sensory panels flutter agitatedly on his back.

                Prowl slowly nods. “But one of the least likely.”

                “Uh, guys?” Bluestreak calls out as he makes his way over to them. The sniper is dusty and scraped up, but otherwise unharmed. Jazz cannot help the grin that breaks over his faceplates when he sees Bluestreak.

                “Good job out there, Blue,” Jazz says.

                “Thanks,” Bluestreak replies distractedly, optics darting around. “But now what?”

                 Jazz and Prowl share a glance and then look towards Optimus. The sun is beginning to set behind him, the golden rays making the flames on his armor glow. His head hangs in grief, yet he still stands straight and tall.

                “You know, Blue… I’m not quite sure,” Jazz replies. He steps towards Prowl and nudges him, grinning. Prowl gives him an exasperated glare, but allows the arm that Jazz throws over Prowl’s shoulder. Jazz leans against Prowl and settles in to enjoy the sunset.

               

 


End file.
